


We are Normal

by kateyboosh



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: A crack kiss for kiss kiss week!, Crack, Jealous Old Gregg, M/M, True Love, Was a dynamic I did not know I needed to write, kiss kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29900271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kateyboosh/pseuds/kateyboosh
Summary: Howard Moon's party proves to be the defining event in the lives of Old Gregg and Sandstorm.
Relationships: Old Gregg/Sandstorm
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4
Collections: Trash Triplets Present (to our own surprise): The Completely Spontaneous Kiss Kiss Week Collection





	We are Normal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BadBadBucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadBadBucky/gifts).



> The wonderful Bucky wanted a crack kiss to the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band's We are Normal for Completely Spontaneous Kiss Kiss Week, and I was thrilled to oblige!

It’s Howard Moon’s birthday tomorrow.

He’s having a party.

Old Gregg strokes the date on the curled-up page of his calendar lovingly, tenderly, as if it’s a fresh young seahorse in need of attention.

His striped sequined dress is laid out on his bed next to his tightest tights and his pointiest, shiniest boots, and his other dress - his special white dress with the train and the lace and the little tiny buttons up the back - is packed neatly in his backpack, with his watercolor kit tucked safe in the front pouch.

It’s Howard Moon’s birthday tomorrow, and he’s having a party, and he doesn’t know it yet, but Old Gregg’s gonna come.

It’s gonna be the night that Old Gregg wins Howard’s heart, and wins his love, and Howard’s gonna scoop him up in his strong arms and twirl him around and carry him away, and then Howard’s gonna unwrap Old Gregg like a shiny birthday present, and then they’re gonna be married and have babies and live in a little cottage under Black Lake forever and ever til the end of time amen, and Howard’s gonna write him songs, and Old Gregg’s gonna paint him watercolors, and that black-haired little tart with the bony arse and the broken nose isn’t going to save Howard this time.

It’s Howard Moon’s birthday tomorrow, and he’s Old Gregg, and he’s going to go get his man.

*

It’s Howard Moon’s birthday tomorrow.

He’s having a party.

“’Party?’” Sandstorm bleats, turning the invitation over, scraping off half the design on the front. “What is ‘party?’ Who is ‘Howard Moon?’ And where is my copy of ‘Lumber Joists Monthly?’”

The man in front of him shrugs. “I dunno, mate. I just deliver the International-Interplanetary Post when Jeff’s on holiday. And I dunno, this Moon bloke sounds like a right tosser. And it’s not ‘party,’ it’s ‘a party.’ And it’s a big gathering of people, with music and food. Sometimes they rent a room-”

“Ha ha! A room!” Sandstorm brays. He pokes the not-Jeff postman in the chest. “And in this room, there is… furniture? Furniture made… of _wood_?”

The not-Jeff postman shrugs again. “Well, yeah? Probably?” He peers at the address on the postcard. “Maybe wood composite. And if there’s dancing, it’ll get moved off to one side-”

Sandstorm lifts his glasspaper palm.

An entire pile of furniture, stacked in a dark corner, awaiting his arrival… a whole evening of wood grain action and sanding satisfaction. Oh, he’ll be popping drawers out, planing boards, smoothing _and_ refinishing arms and legs and seats in pure DIY ecstasy.

Sandstorm’s nipples rev. He twirls away in dismissal, coating not-Jeff in a fog of sexually charged sand.

“Ha! Ha ha! I am Sandstorm! Off to… ‘party!’”

Who knows, that cowboy was from Earth. Maybe Sand’ll have it off with an exotic Edwardian dresser and then spot him.

He’d better pack his gloves.

*

Old Gregg’s been at Howard’s party for hours now, and outside the flat for three hours before that, and across the street for four hours before that, peeking in with his spare periscope as Howard got ready, but Old Gregg’s pointy boots are too tight, and his sequined dress isn’t sparkly enough, and his tightest tights are too loose, and just when he sees his chance to get up on the roof with Howard and slide his engagement ring onto his huge finger and have the Moon proclaim them husband and man-fish wife, that pigeon-toed tart pushes past him in his too-tight tights and too-sparkly tunic and perfectly pointed silver boots, and then a handsome strong bald man in a fluffy cloak holding a sword storms by, and Old Gregg has to go visit the punch bowl for a drink to collect himself.

The dance floor’s too crowded, and the pink blob at the DJ decks looks like he might bite, and when Old Gregg checks, the punch bowl is full of pinky-purpley sweet-smelling punch, not creamy beige Bailey’s, and this is the worst birthday party/surprise wedding night _ever_.

Old Gregg twirls and claps sadly to the funky beat on the periphery of the dance floor, his backpack straps sagging down on his turned-in shoulders. Vaguely, over the salty tears he can feel starting to trickle down his scaly cheeks, he can hear the neon salmon ballsack at the turntable arguing with his finely feathered friend.

“Shit off! I am havin’ that record next! It’s pure strategy! Put on the Bonzos, spike the punch, bring the party sky-high, you nonce!”

“Yes, well, Tony, that’s a wonderful idea, if by ‘sky-high’ you mean plunging down into the depths of unfettered agony. Your DJ skills are about as fresh as your sense of navigation, and by that, I mean they’re as rotten as a nosegay of unrefrigerated haddock. It’s Charles and Eddie or the Prodigy next, but maybe your sterling ‘strategy’ suggests that you’d like to put on the Carpenters and really bring this party crashing to a halt.”

Gregg sniffles. Maybe if he’d worn his haddock nosegay, he’d have gotten within proximity to Howard earlier. Howard had looked so handsome, so dashing in his corset, that Gregg had swooned into a daydream as soon as he saw him onstage. He’d imagined unlacing Howard, lying him back on a coral marriage bed thick with seaweed, Howard kicking his Birkenstocks off, his rollneck erotic, his cords sensual, his large hands gliding over the scale of Gregg’s thighs, unbuttoning his dress, tangling in his hair, ravishing-

“Tripping? To the Carpenters?” the pink blob whines, incredulous. “Saboo, you slag, you’re a genius!”

Through the warm, salty love glow of his fantasy, Gregg hears the taller man whisper harshly.

“That was a joke and you know it, you useless knob. You know better than anyone that _We’ve Only Just Begun_ reduces me to a puddle of soft spring tears. Go on, have your yapping Bonzo Dogs, you revolting pink udder.”

A noise of glee bounces out of the blob’s mouth, followed by echoey, distorted words, jazzy runs of brass, and soft, bubbly underwater sounds.

Gregg pouts. It sounds like home. It sounds like home should be, Howard trumpeting late into the night, bursts of jazz and chatter layering over and over and speeding up and up and up and up and up and up _and up,_ and then Gregg sees him, resting his big, broad shoulders against the wall like a knight in shining-

Sandpaper?

Gregg twists his skirt in his claws and hops over, brushing seaweed out of his eyes with a delicate, shy flick of his wrist.

“Hi. How are ya? I’m Old Gregg,” he sighs, breathily.

“Ha. Ha ha. I am Sandstorm,” the creature replies, his craggy features downcast. The fringe of his white leather gloves sways sadly in the flickering light.

“Nice party,” Gregg says, even though it’s not a nice party, even though it should be a nice party, because it’s Howard’s party, and it’s not true that Old Gregg’s got all things that are good, it’s Howard who does.

But Howard’s up on the roof with that skinny pointy bony little seductive slim-hipped big-eyed big-downstairs minx, and Old Gregg’s down here with this strong, tall, broad, manly sandpaper man with beautiful, tiny brown eyes and wide shoulders, shoulder so wide you could build an underwater cottage on ‘em.

Old Gregg bends his scaly knees to hop around a bit, and his heart gives a twinge when he straightens up.

Not just a sandpaper man. Sandstorm.

Sandstorm and Old Gregg.

Old Gregg + Sandstorm. Together forever. Babies and DIY custom-built cottages and rainy underwater nights in his big, strong, exfoliating arms, palms polishing up his scales to a brilliant shine.

Old Gregg grins.

“Nice gloves,” he coos, fingering at the fringe, and Sandstorm half-turns.

“Nice… hair,” Sandstorm bleats.

“I’m Old Gregg,” Old Gregg purrs. He shuffles around, twirls, claps. “What d’you think of me?” 

Sandstorm’s brow waggles. A soft, appraising, “ha ha!” melts from his rough lips.

“I know what I think of you, sir,” Gregg says. “I think-”

His assessment’s cut short by a couple of things. There’s a shout from the rooftop, and Howard and that bony-arsed, pigeon-toed, big-eyed tarty little witch-wench sail past Gregg outside, but he’s too busy to notice, focused on Sandstorm’s poky fingers brushing the seaweed away from his gleaming eyes.

By the time Howard and that tart have bounced back up, Gregg’s too busy kissing and being kissed by the new love of his life to notice.

It’s Howard Moon’s birthday today, and he doesn’t know it, but it’s Old Gregg and Sandstorm’s engagement party, too.


End file.
